Friday, July 21, 2017

Father, Forgive Me...

This is not an easy blog to write. This is a confession and part of me is so ashamed. Unfortunately, it is part of loving someone with PTSD.



I have told you many times about being a Daddy's girl. I was and am. I loved him with every fiber of who I was. Which is why it was hard to watch him suffer. His PTSD was combat induced and he showed signs shortly after returning from Vietnam. "Combat fatigue" was the name used at the time. It wasn't until the Gulf War was in full force that the term PTSD was bandied about. By then, my parents' marriage had been destroyed. I was 18 and living in Oyster Bay, New York. I was horribly homesick and every phone call had me ready to quit my job. Finally, I reached the point where I said "I have to go home." My family was falling apart and being so far away was killing me.



For twenty years, I was my daddy's lifeline. I wish I could tell you the number of times he was ready to end his own life. And the phone calls! Oh dear gods, the phone calls! I can replay each one of them, word for word. For me, it's my Hell. Every time, I was able to either talk him down or get help to him in time. He thanked me profusely. The last time was the exception. He had called to tell me he loved me and to say goodbye. I was in Felton, Pennsylvania and Dad was in Palo Alto, CA. How in hell was I gonna stop my hero from doing this? I called 911 in York, PA, who put me in touch with 911 in Harrisburg, PA, who called San Fran, CA's 911, who put me through to the Palo Alto 911 who connected me with the Palo Alto VA police station. Every one of these operators stayed on the line with me as they tracked him down. They got him safely into the hospital and the first call I got was from a nurse named Jaime who told me to take a shot of whiskey and get some sleep, she had this. The next morning, Dad called to ask why I wouldn't let him die? I decided then and there that I was selfish, but as long as I drew breath, I'd always save him.

It took some time, but he thanked me for making that call. However...I watched him suffer. I could hear it in his voice via the phone calls. When I lived with him, I saw it first hand. My dad had become an alcoholic and no one was trying to help him. His brother is an even bigger alcoholic and enjoyed having someone to drink with. Everyone else thought it was just Dad's way. My dad used to enjoy a beer or two every now and then. Mixed drinks on New Year's Eve. However, it was nothing like what he was doing before he died. His demons were full-blown and he was losing the battle. At this point, he said some very hurtful things to me and after sitting and crying, I began to question the decisions I'd made. Why did I save him? He obviously didn't want to live, yet I kept fighting for him. I felt as if I was the only one fighting for him most days, however, he wouldn't have given up on me so I sure as hell wasn't going to give up on him. I do remember saying the words "My life would be so much easier if he weren't here!" (I live with this every single day!)

Every time he called, my heart would race. His doctors were the first ones to tell me that I had secondary PTSD. I'd lived with dad and his terrors. I'd been his "partner" through this hell on Earth he experienced. I'd sat in on his counseling sessions. I'd held his hands when he cried. I could close my eyes and follow him into the jungles of Vietnam. My nightmares were riddled with gun shots and death. The nightmares are less now. I don't relive them like I used to. But let me tell you, my Women's Studies class at UWO one semester was about the Laotians who assisted our troops in Vietnam. I spent more sick days that semester than I ever had before. I couldn't sit through the film footage. I would sit in class and cry.

At that point, I was still a Psych major with an intent on serving our veterans. I was hell-bent on saving our returning warriors, one at a time, if I needed to. I had to take a step back. My anxiety was through the roof. My depression was worse than ever. My PTSD was rearing it's ugly head. I was losing control of my life. So, I had to admit I just couldn't. As much as I want to save them all, I can't. I do know that my heart will belong to a veteran long after it has stopped beating. My lessons in this journey with Dad have taught me many things and loving a veteran is my destiny.

Again, I say the words, "Father, forgive me...I did my best, but unfortunately, my best wasn't good enough, my love wasn't strong enough, and my will was not great enough. But it doesn't mean that you weren't loved with all that I am."

Saturday, July 15, 2017

If You Could Choose...

I've started binge-watching this show on Netflix. It's an Australian show about this family who has their share of problems. In one episode, the family was asked to bring one object that was an example of who they were to stick in a baby's time capsule. This got me to thinking...what would be the one object that is an example of who I am?

I hate it when these things get stuck in my head. I've been thinking on it for days now. In my Women's Studies classes, we have discussed intersectionality and what it means. I am a woman, but I'm so much more. (I'm white with a Native bloodline. I'm a daughter. I'm a student. I'm a canine mom. I'm an author. I am divorced. I am a friend. I am a lover. And the list goes on.) In a day's time, I wear many hats, so how on earth would I choose one object to define me?

That's when it hit me... a patchwork heart!


Let me explain (Thank you, Dr. A and Audre Lorde!): A patchwork heart is my object because while I am so many things to so many different people, I wouldn't be who I am without the experiences and people who have shaped me. My heart has loved and been loved. It's broke others' hearts and been broken. It's been stitched back together. I've talked about my patchwork heart before. How the beings in my life take a piece of my heart and leave me with a piece of theirs in return. There is no other heart like mine. My heart is unique because of the hearts and lessons that have been part of my life. These are the things that have molded and shaped me into the woman I am, good and bad. Love and loss, happiness and sorrow, suffering and thriving...all these things have left an imprint. With my very unique patchwork heart, the design is ever-changing because I am ever-changing. From the moment I came into this world, ass-backwards and determined to do things my own way, my heart has been evolving. I'm excited to see what changes will be made to it as my life goes on.

Each heart is unique. You may have been loved by the same people, but not in the same way. Your experience may be similar to mine, but nobody's journey is the same. Even within the same family. I look at families and the children within them. There could be five children in the same room at the same time being told the exact same thing. However, there are 5 sets of ears, hearing 5 different things. It amazes me how the heart translates words and shapes us.

I have found my object and why it defines me. Tell me, readers, what would be the one object you would choose to put into a time capsule to let the world know who you were?

Sunday, July 2, 2017

Saying Goodbye...

I'm a sappy sort so I needed to write this out. Yesterday was a difficult day for me. Way more emotion than I am used to, but I knew this day was coming. I knew this day was coming since I met this young man 2 years ago. I've known it was a definite thing for a year now.

See, yesterday I said "goodbye" to a soldier. It was the first goodbye I've ever said. Usually, I distance myself from friends who are joining the military so I don't get my heart broke or I become friends with them once they return. I've never stayed for the long haul. Unfortunately, this one is the one that is breaking me into a million little pieces.

I met this young man right around his 16th birthday. We've only gotten to be friends in the last year and a half. He has an easy way about him and the woman with social anxiety appreciates that. His quick smile lights up a room and his laughter brightens my day. He is so easy to joke with, yet isn't so silly that serious conversations aren't a possibility. We have had some great times.

I don't let people get too close, but somehow, he burrowed into my cold black heart and settled in to stay. When he joined the Army, he stated he wanted a party. He, then, asked that I stick around to do shots with him before he left. I honored his wish yesterday. It was hard for me to pour that shot of Jack for each of us because this meant it was real. And trust me, at some point, I was hoping this was all a dream.

In a very short period of time, this young man will be leaving and heading in the direction of his dream. A dream he's held since he was small. So, I ask that you keep him in your thoughts and prayers as he journeys on in this direction.

You'll never see this, Matthew, but know that you are loved and missed with every breath that is taken. Dammit, Kid, you've left big old cowboy boot prints on my heart! Take care and come home! I love you as if you're one of my own! 10 weeks, you said! It's only 10 weeks! I'm crossing off the weeks on a calendar until you come back to us, Kid :)

So for today, (and those who know me understand) I will be:


Love ya, Kid!